Cidade Maravilhosa
by Karla K
Summary: In which Sherlock is nearly devoured by a jaguar in the depths of Brazil and John decides Rio is a wonderful place to live. Post-Reichenbach. Sequel to "Saudade", but can be read alone. S/J


**TITLE: **Cidade Maravilhosa

**SUMMARY: **In which Sherlock is nearly devoured by a jaguar in the depths of Brazil and John decides Rio is a wonderful place to live. Post-Reichenbach. Sequel to "Saudade", but can be read alone.

* * *

This was not supposed to be happening.

He wasn't supposed to be dying now. Not for real, and not after all he's been through. And definitely, not _this _way.

Sherlock Holmes didn't leave all behind to disentangle Moriarty's web around the world and _actually_ succeed it just to die alone, lost, anonymous, somewhere in the middle of Amazon Rainforest.

But above all, he did never, ever in his life, think that his death would be so brutal and painful. Blown up? Possibly. Shot in the head? Most likely.

But Sherlock never thought he would finally leave the world by being _devoured_. Literally.

How did he even get himself into this?

The jaguar – or how it was called where he was, the _onça_ – is the third largest feline in the world, after the tiger and the lion. It is more heavily built than the leopard, though it has shorter legs and tail. The unusual thing about the onça, though, was its color – deep gold, patterned with black spots, arranged in large rosettes.

A beautiful, wild animal. That was staring at him, ready to attack.

_Any moment now, _he thought.

Although it might seem strange now, Sherlock did not regret the decisions that brought him here, face-to-face with death in the jungle. John was still safe, wherever he was. And so was Mrs. Hudson, Molly and Lestrade. Moriarty was dead. Sebastian Moran, the last in line, was now lying dead in front of him, covered by some leaves. Brazil was the place where the bastard was hidden.

Sherlock felt victorious, after all. He managed to destroy the most active organization of terrorism in the whole world by its root, piece by piece, with the help of the British Government, his brother, Mycroft. Who probably was somewhere safe as well, drinking tea, oblivious to his brother's situation. He didn't blame him, though. He blamed no one anymore.

_The thing about animals_, he thought again, _is that they are unpredictable. I can't deduce them, for they change their minds so quickly. _

Sherlock knew all about the Panthera Onça, like it mattered. All the dense information was running across the back of his mind, trying to find a way out, but there was no way out. He _knew, _he simply knew, he wouldn't be coming back home ever again.

Because the jaguars could run more than 37 miles per hour, faster the fastest human alive. It didn't matter how much you ran, or even if you climbed a damn tree, they could go up to the highest place the branch would support. _The only way out_, he thought bitter, _was not to make any sound at all, staying still, then throwing things to the air, so the animal would be scared and would possibly go away._

At least that was what he read years ago in the survival guide. It all sounded so stupid now, since it was a contradiction. If only he could get his gun, lying still in the ground, a few meters next to him…

The animal growled and started moving. It didn't matter anymore. Thinking didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore.

* * *

Brazil was indeed a unique country. Full of beauties, mysteries and a lot of corruption. Nice to stay for a while and clear your head, but nothing like London. London could be all sorts of things, but it was home.

Home was something he didn't even know he had before all of this. Something he never thought he would miss so much once cruelly removed from it three years ago. _Saudade_, that was the proper term.

He hated Brazilian people, though. Always making a fuss about things, partying and speaking aloud in public. It was all true what they said he would find, and that was the sort of people he definitely could not tolerate.

Sherlock would _never_ have these thoughts again, for it was because of one of them that he was _alive_ right now, thinking clearly, heart beating, air in lungs.

_What in hell had happened, then?_

He didn't dare to open his eyes just yet. But still he could deduce where he was. He was laying somewhere in the air, moving lightly, probably at a native hammock. It was incredibly hot, but still, he should've got used to that already.

He couldn't feel scratches, wounds or bruises of any kind, but his head was positively pulsing, maybe because of the hot, maybe because he hadn't eaten anything in days.

He opened one eye tentatively. The house he found himself in was made of wood, very simple, very humble, the kind of residence you expect to find in riparian areas. And there was someone staring at him marveled – a little child, very annoying.

So he opened the other eye. The girl moved away, a bit scared, but then again, she had never seen someone like _Sherlock _in her entire life.

He always knew he was kind of alien, even for a British man, but had never _felt_ like one until now. He suddenly became aware of his pale-white skin, exquisite facial bone structure and height. And how it contrasted to the girl's native features, brown skin and bright, expressive black eyes.

No wonder she was scared, he thought with a sigh. Where was he, anyway?

And then the girl was gone. Someone clearly related to her appeared at the doorstep, probably the father, and he was coming at his direction with something that looked remotely to a phone.

"Pra você" he said weakly, delivering it to him, and then leaving as well, obviously intimidated by him. _Oh, brilliant_. No one wanted to be around him and he didn't even know why it was bothering now.

"Alô?" Sherlock answered apprehensive.

"Sherlock?" said a familiar voice.

It was Mycroft_. How did he… Nevermind_.

"How are you, brother dear?" Sherlock couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

"Spectacular, considering I was just about to be killed by a feline until something I hope you can explain happened and I am here alive somewhere in the depths of South America", his voice was hoarse and he spoke fast.

"Oh, I will," Mycroft chuckled lightly. "If you could just wait. Sebastian Moran?"

"Dead." he said curtly.

"Good", was the simple reply. They didn't need to go further on this subject right now. There _were _a bit more pressing questions to be attended.

"And the plane to take me out of here? My work is, after all, done."

"Indeed it is. It'll be coming in a couple of hours at max. They will take you to the nearest city, Manaus, and then from there you'll be taking the next plane to Rio de Janeiro by dawn."

"Rio de Janeiro?" he repeated rather surprised. "Why Rio, Mycroft?"

"I thought you wanted to see John, now that you are finally a free and _alive _man again", he said matter-of-factly.

"Yes, I do," Sherlock admitted reluctantly, "that's why I want to get to _London_ as soon as possible. Actually, if there was a way I could get there _now,_ I would appreciate it very much. There are many unanswered matters in need of my attention at the moment, John being the most important of them. He deserves a decent explanation, and I'd rather if he was the first to know."

"I know you do," Mycroft replied amused, "That's why we're taking you to Rio. John's in there, Sherlock. He moved four months ago to Brazil, after he was nominated by the government for a job vacancy at one of the most respectable hospital there, and incredibly he just found a flat to rent by now."

"The _government_ being _you_, and _you_, of course, haven't told me a _thing"_, Sherlock said harsh, "_I _was in Rio de Janeiro four months ago."

"You ought not to know that at the time", he said, "You were focused on your task. It demanded your total attention, Sherlock. And now it's completed. Wasn't it worth the waiting?"

"Sincerely? I don't know." he said tired. "Just take me out of this hell."

* * *

What _happened_, Sherlock learned later, was that Mycroft hired local people to _watch _over him during the final stage of his mission. In fact, he was never in real danger, since they were all there in control of the whole situation, just waiting for the best moment to act and save him.

Mycroft was hopeless. Coming to that, any of them could have killed Sebastian Moran for him. But he chose to let Sherlock do it, because he knew Sherlock _needed _to do it. Even if that meant to be taken to the ends of Earth and track the cretin through the dense and exuberant forest. Hundreds down, one to go. That was the only way to know it was over.

_It is over,_ his mind repeated. _It is finally over._

Sherlock sighed contently and exhausted. Besides all of this, it has been long since he felt so alive. And, oh, how he enjoyed every second of it. But now he has made an important decision. Now he would sit down.

Not only at his first class seat on the airplane, no. He decided to finally embrace the sitting-down way of life, rest his tired muscles and actually do something for himself for the first time in decades. No more cases, not yet. His body practically begged for rest, anyway.

But what was Sherlock Holmes without his cases? Without the excitement, the mystery, the diversion they provided? That he would find out. And he was surprisingly looking forward to it.

He was certainly not the same man who left Baker Street three years ago. The overgrown child had finally become into a proper adult, who had to make tough decisions to keep living every day.

If death taught anything, it would be how to appreciate life, as strange as it sounds. That was an experience he was willing to have.

_Just look at it, _Sherlock thought. Now they were flying through the Amazon river, just above the meeting of the waters, where the Black river met the Solimões river, but incredibly, did not mix. They just lied there, side by side, never touching, until the infinity, or as long as the eye could see. Of course Sherlock knew it was all because of the density of the waters and the different natures of the two rivers, but he scattered the thoughts as fast as they came.

_Indeed, much better than the pictures,_ that was Sherlock's last thought before finally succumbing to sleep.

He didn't want to admit he was that tired, though, which clearly he was, so he slept with his head turned to the window, the ice of the material relieving his terrible headache. They all found really sweet the way he seemed to be so amazed at the view that he couldn't turn his gaze away, but really, he was just hibernating.

When he woke up they were approaching what it seemed to be a very provincial city, with old buildings at the Portuguese and English style, but that suddenly became a bigger one, with tall buildings and lots of parks and all kinds of commerce around the Centre. He saw the Amazon Opera House and relaxed, because he knew half of the trip was already over.

He experienced a true sentiment of joy while walking through Manaus' airport all by himself. No need to escape, no need hide. And no more fake IDs. Yes, he hoped Mycroft had taken care of it already. Which he did, obviously. He would never have to be Felipe Albuquerque again. Oh, how he hated the man. Which was very curious, since _he_ was the man.

He was glad to be Sherlock Holmes again, thank you very much. But with the identity regained, responsibilities had to follow. And that worried him, extremely.

It was already night when he left the Amazon, and honestly, he just couldn't wait to leave. He held the place with high regard, since it was where Moran finally found his doom, and so did Moriarty and his Empire. It was beautiful, indeed, and he had never seen anything like it. He almost died there, so he had lots of memories from it, good ones and bad ones. _But, really, enough of green. Enough._

The prospective of Rio de Janeiro, though, both cheered him up and terrified him.

Never in those months of hunting had he thought of what it would be like when he met John again. He preferred to keep it to the last moment. _This _was the last moment.

And now he had to think.

John would hate him, probably. He wouldn't blame him if he did, and Sherlock wasn't really expecting otherwise. And he would punch him, most likely. And utter profanities at him, for sure. But he knew that deep down, he would be full of joy.

But would it be so deep down he wouldn't show it? Would he be so broken he wouldn't want to ever look at Sherlock in the face again?

Because that would make Sherlock positively upset. No, upset wasn't the word. He wasn't really good at words, after all. Not these kind of words, though. _Feelings._

Not even months in Brazil would change that.

Now he was feeling rather concerned. Was it even concerned? _What_ if John didn't want him anymore? _What _would he do?

He didn't survive a jaguar, three years of hunting and St. Barts just to be rejected by John at the finish line. No, that wasn't even an option.

Sherlock would give him time, certainly. Time to accommodate, adjust to the idea of having him back. But eventually John would give in, wouldn't he?

He just had to.

He needed him to.

That would be a _long _flight.

* * *

"I did not believe it was even possible, little brother, your skin as pale as it is, but this tan of yours will do it just fine. Just one more tourist in the crowd." Mycroft was babbling something at the phone about disguises, but Sherlock wasn't really listening. Wait. Disguises?

"And I believe you told me I was _allowed _to be myself again. Why the sudden change of plans? Is there something wrong you haven't told me yet?" Sherlock said suspiciously.

"No, not wrong," corrected Mycroft, "But I thought it would be best. For John, you see. You need to find a way to approach him without killing him of a heart attack in the process. That's why the disguise. Nothing dramatic, though. You already dyed your hair, this difference alone is enough".

"I haven't dyed it, Sherlock huffed indignantly, "I've shaved it. And it has grown back in its natural colour. As my brother, you ought to remember _that_."

"Oh, Auntie Barbara's ginger genes," Mycroft seemed distant for a second. "Of course. But black still suits you better, if my opinion counts, anyway."

"It doesn't." he replied. "Whatever the case, at the first opportunity I have, I really am dying it black again. Not because of you, though. I still don't know _why_ we're having this conversation." He finished defensively and slightly confused.

Mycroft laughed. "You really _are _nervous, aren't you, brother?"

Sherlock said nothing.

"You're in Rio, Sherlock. Things _will_ certainly get better without you even trying. Now do yourself a favour, and enjoy it."

This time, Sherlock huffed.

"Consider it a vacation. A break."

"As if I could."

"It's not really that hard."

"You have no idea."

"You wonder where he is." Mycroft assumed correctly. "Do you know what day is today?"

* * *

Rio de Janeiro's major postcard, a symbol of Brazilian Christianity, one of the new Seven Wonders of the World, the statue of _Christ the Redeemer_, located at the peak of the Corcovado mountain, attracts people from all over the world. It is the 5th largest statue of Jesus, built between 1922 and 1931, a great investment. To any person, a magnificent view.

To Sherlock, just another place full of idiotic people. The difference? These ones are taking pictures. Dozens. Hundreds. Never getting tired of clicking. It's awfully annoying, actually.

But not today. Not today, because John's there. Somewhere in the middle of the crowd of the enthusiastic tourists, John's there.

He needed to be careful, really careful, more than he's ever been, in the next minutes of his life. Because those minutes would change the rest of it forever, for the best or for the worst. It was just like the onça incident all over again. Sherlock took a deep breath and started looking.

He wasn't even recognizing himself – short ginger hair, burned skin, green contact lenses, plain T-shirt and jeans, camera in hand. In fact, he looked just like everybody. Except he didn't. Except he _wasn't _likeeverybody.

He was also deducing _everything_ from _everybody_, which was positively driving him mad right now, but that was something he just couldn't help. He turned his back to the crowd and stared at the magnificent view for the first time.

It was late afternoon, and the sun was almost down. The city was already lighted up, and so was the statue. It was beautiful, really, a bit grey – for some odd reasons Sherlock couldn't understand – but there was no time to appreciate. He needed to find John.

_Italian woman and children (the smallest had autism, no one suspected yet), French couple (the man was about to propose, the woman had no clue), Brazilian old man marveling at the view (he looked sad, probably because of his recent discovery – the man was diagnosed with cancer), random people, random people, a few adolescents in the end of their school trip (the teacher was having an affair with one of the students), more random people, random children, random annoying children… Where was John?_

And then he saw. Right there, hidden in one of the corners, angling strangely towards the security bars, too close to the edge, away from the crowd, sighing heavily, there he was. There was John.

_What now?_ He thought terrified. _A plan. Quick._ In two seconds he already had one. He approached the blond man with a smile in his face. A smile that sadly wasn't his – it was from his character. It was showtime.

"Speak English?" he gestured, his voice amiable. A voice that wasn't his own as well – this one was a little too high-pitched, a little too loud.

John turned his head abruptly, as if he had been caught deep in thought, which of course he had.

"Oh, yes," he answered curtly, but then thought better and smiled. Probably thinking that no one there had anything to do with his problems, therefore he should be nice to them all. Always the selfless.

"Could you take a picture of me with the statue, please?" Sherlock smiled again. "I tried using the self timer, didn't really work," he continued slightly embarrassed.

"It's no problem, really." John said, taking the camera from his hand and trying to find the best angle to shoot it, walking awkwardly towards the statue.

Sherlock smiled once more, this time to the camera, feeling a little bit too ridiculous as John said "Another one, just to make sure!"

"There," John said, sounding pleased with himself. Sherlock thanked him and looked at the picture. It was rather good, in fact. No need to erase later.

"So you're English as well?" he asked, moving on the conversation.

"Oh, you too, then," John replied happily, suddenly feeling more comfortable with his presence. "John Watson, by the way," he extended his hand so Sherlock could shake it. He did. He tried hard not to think about that now. What was his name, by the way?

"Thomas Barts", he said. John's eyes stared intently at him. Poor choice of name, surely, but it would at least grab his attention for a little more.

"First time in Rio, heh?" John asked. "I've been living here for a while, needed London out of my lungs. Wonderful place, really."

"It's my first day here, actually," he corrected. "Still seems like a big mess to me, if you really care to know" he confessed humoured.

"Oh, indeed, it is" John chuckled. "But it's worth it. Just look at this," he pointed to the city down there, the night already fallen, the beaches still full. "It's life. Life at its purest form, I would say. You feel… connected."

"I see what you mean," he said, observing the lights, the movement, the traffic, the people, and he realized he really meant it.

* * *

They chatted for a while, trivial things – or dull conversation – Sherlock would have said. But_ those_ trivial things were important. They were John's. They mattered. After an hour or so, they were sitting right under the monument, in some chairs Sherlock found empty.

"I come up here once a month, actually, since I got here in Rio. Probably my favourite place in the whole city. Perhaps my favourite place in the whole world, come to that. It's calm here. Especially at this time. Helps me to think, you know." John said distantly.

"And you've got a lot to think about." That wasn't a question. Sherlock made sure he sounded interested. He was.

"Yes," John admitted, biting his lip and turning his gaze away.

"And no one to talk to, it seems… Do you have English friends here in Brazil at all?"

"Actually, no, I don't." John laughed humourless. "I still have no ideia of how I'm coping with Portuguese here. Tricky language, it is."

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed. "Well, I am here for the whole week." He now went straight to the point. "If you're willing to hang out some time, maybe you should call me, mate."

"Thanks, Thomas," John said sincerely touched. Sherlock winced at the mention of the fake name. It just wasn't right. "Today's being quite stressing… well, not only today, I've been down for a while, you see, and work is bloody _consuming_ me. Perhaps I just night a night out".

"Oh, I see." Sherlock started. "I recognize the symptoms. Broken heart. She dumped you, didn't she?"

"It's not like that" John closed his eyes, his voice quiet. "Or maybe it is. Well, I'll never know. And it wasn't exactly a 'she'."

"Oh," Sherlock tried to sound surprised. In fact, he was infuriatingly nervous. He hoped it wasn't showing, his self control was definitely ruined for the day.

"It's not like that!" John corrected abruptly, shaking his hands. 'It's… well, it's actually… a friend of mine. My best friend, really," now John just sounded broken.

Sherlock's voice was low and timid when he asked, "What happened to him?"

"He died."

There. He said it. His lowered his face to the ground, staring at it as if it was the most interesting thing it the world.

"I really am sorry, John." Sherlock said, also broken. John just couldn't know how much. And how honest he was actually being right now. "When was it?"

"Three years ago, exactly today."

"Three years?"

"I still couldn't get over it," he laughed again humourless, passing his fingers anxiously through his blond hair. "He really was my best friend. Only friend, actually. We lived together and all. We practically worked together as well. He was everything to me, really. A brilliant mind, that one. He was a genius. " John smiled. "But he's gone."

And then there was silence for a second.

"I really shouldn't be bothering you with this, Thomas," John said apologizing.

"No, no, it's not a problem, really… I'm here to listen to you. I know the feeling, that's why. You must miss him very much."

"I do," John confessed. "Every day since. London was getting heavier and heavier to breathe, Jesus, he seemed to be _everywhere_, every corner, everything reminding me of him. It was suffocating. Here in Rio I was finally able to see how much all of this was destroying me. Finally got sober, I mean. Faced reality. I used to believe – you'll find it stupid, really – that at any moment he would just 'puf' and reappear out of the blue. God, I used to pray – I'm not even religious – for him to come back, for him to do just one more miracle – he used to do a lot of them –, one more miracle for me."

Now the air in Brazil was also getting heavier to breathe as well. Sherlock remained silent. He had the feeling he would ruin John again, any second from now. But now it was just too late. It was going to happen anyway.

"I used to pray to 'please, God, just let him live'." He finished, more to himself than anything.

Sherlock swallowed hard.

"Is there really any chance, even minimal, that he might come back some day?"

Silence.

"No."

John's eyes looked red and puffy, it was obvious that he was containing the tears from coming. He blinked a lot and managed to hide that after a few instants. He was a soldier, after all. "But you said you know the feeling." He said, trying to change the subject. Divert the attention from him. It was getting too personal.

"I do."

"What happened, Thomas?" John patted his shoulder gently, reassuring him to talk about it.

_That was it._

_Enough._

He couldn't bare it any longer. Sherlock breathed hard. Inspired, exhaled, and then did it again. And again. John was becoming preoccupied. _It's time._

"You," he said, his voice nothing but a whisper. "You happened."

And then the world made silence.

"I really am sorry, John."

All emotions crossed John's face at once. Confusion was the first. It took no longer than two seconds, but it seemed an eternity to Sherlock. Then there was denial. This one lasted longer, and John was shaking his head repeatedly. Hurt. He buried his face in his hand and did nothing for a few moments. Absolutely nothing at all.

And then he started sobbing. Desperately. He fell apart. It really felt like he was going to collapse.

Sherlock tried to move away, give him some space, but John was faster and grabbed his arm and pulled him down to embrace him so hard it hurt. Sherlock put his arms around him tightly and sighed. John was breathing on his neck, feeling him, just feeling him, wetting his friend's T-shirt with uncontrollable tears, but it was fine. It was all fine.

Suddenly John's hands were cupping his face, his gaze impossibly focused, but lost and unrecognizable, as if he thought he was hallucinating. That it wasn't real. But it was, and he needed him to believe it was.

"Sherlock," he breathed. John was repeating it over and over again. Just his name. "God, it's you. _It's actually you_."John disentangled from him abruptly and looked up to the statue – the intimidating God Sherlock knew he believed in –, very serious. He whispered so lowly, his voice so harsh; it was barely audible. "Thank you, thank you, thank you so much."

Sherlock looked curious, almost amused. John noticed this and laughed, still uncontrollably, still manic. His emotions were written all across his face.

"Don't even start," he joked, his voice cracked, and then pulled the taller man to another hug, which Sherlock replied contently. It felt good, it really did.

They were just lying there, beginning to attract people's attention. They would definitely talk, oh, they would. But fuck all of them. It was Brazil, after all.

"In my defense," Sherlock said, releasing John to stare at him, "I do have a very good explanation."

"You always do." John sighed resigned, cleaning his wet face on his sleeves. "I am _angry _at you, though. I am fucking _angry_, Sherlock, and I can't even bring myself to let you go now."

"I had no idea, John, that you would be so affected."

"No idea?" his anger was starting to show. "I _mourned_ you, Sherlock. I was the perfect image of the grieving widower; I couldn't even think of eating or sleeping! It ruined me, _completely_. I lost my job, I used to go to your bloody gravestone every week and I talked to you, thought you might be listening. I was becoming _mad_, you see. And still you couldn't just _tell me_. I left my own country, Sherlock, because you made me hate it."

"John."

"Mrs. Hudson got really ill. It wasn't just the hip. She was _depressed._ Lestrade divorced three times, in three years. And Molly? Molly moved to live with her sister in Holland, because somewhat she said she felt _responsible _for what happened, said she couldn't look me in the face again. Because Moriarty was her fucking _boyfriend_, and that's how he got to you."

_It certainly isn't the only reason Molly has to feel so ashamed._ Sherlock felt ashamed because he hadn't thought of that. Hadn't thought of Molly, again. But he wouldn't be telling John that at the moment. No, that would just make things worse.

"And you might even have thought for a second that you were prepared to leave the world, Sherlock, but, really, the world wasn't prepared to let you leave just yet. It was so abrupt, for God's sake. I thought we were going to get through it together, like we've always done, I thought we were going to have dinner at night, and then, suddenly, you were _dead_. Do you _understand_ what I mean?" John said slowly, emphasizing all the right points.

"I had no choice."

"Everyone has a choice. Yours was to leave me."

"You have to idea of how that was like for _me,_" Sherlock replied defensibly, his tone louder. He felt betrayed. He couldn't believe John had interpreted his actions that way. John, the only one who always believed him, no matter what.

"Enlighten me, then."

"He had a gun pointed to your _head_, John! He was going to kill you, _all _of you. I had no choice but to do what I did. Mycroft helped with the details."

"Of course Mycroft was involved!" John interrupted, feeling suddenly stupid. "You all were lying to me!"

"I spent the last three years tracking and destroying the heads of Moriarty's mafia. I had just finished the last one, Sebastian Moran – the bastard was hiding in the _rainforest_ –, when I was attacked by a jaguar and sincerely thought I was going to die, this time for real. You can't put the all blame on my shoulders. You too don't know what _I _have been through. We all have suffered enough in this hideous mess, so I am asking you to give an end to this. I'm giving you the chance to make it stop. The choice is yours, though. Will you _forgive_ me, John?"

"No," he said rapidly. Sherlock's face fell. "I can't."

"Why?" the detective asked darkly, preparing to stand up. "What do I still need to do?"

"No, don't," John repeated, this time clearer and more composed. "No. I didn't mean that. I'm sorry, I told you, I _am _angry. I can't forgive you yet, but I will. Jesus, it doesn't matter _what _you do, I always will, because I am such a bloody fool for you, Sherlock!" This time it was John who got up, distressed, and started to move to the balcony. Sherlock had no choice but to follow.

They were again at the very same spot they met a few hours ago, John leaning dangerously to the edge, Sherlock still Thomas Barts. The air was chill up there, and the sounds of traffic were incredibly irritating in the frantic city that was still moving, never stopping, just under their feet. There weren't a lot of people hanging around anymore; they all had eventually left, leaving the touristic attraction empty except for them and a few more couples at the other side of the monument.

"You really weren't thinking about jumping, were you?"

"No, I wasn't, of course I wasn't," John cleared his throat. "I would never do that. So many people here, so many children. No, I was just thinking."

"About?"

"That here is surely my favourite place in the world. I know I told you before, but I meant it entirely at the time. The thing is – I am not so sure anymore."

"How is that even _possible_? It was just a few hours ago."

John smiled weakly, shook his head and said sympathetically, "What are we going to do now?"

"When you say 'now'…"

"You need to know that it is not my intention to move back to London anytime soon – not yet. No, I want to stay here for a while. I love this town. But then I realized we would have another huge problem."

Sherlock waited for him to finish.

"I am also not leaving you anytime soon."

"Good," Sherlock answered seriously. "That's hardly my intention, either."

"You better start liking Rio now."

"And by that you're implying…?"

"That you are going to stay here as well, of course. I don't care what you think, you are not leaving anymore. We're in this _together_, Sherlock, we've always been, and I honestly hope you remember that next time you think of throwing yourself off a building again. But lucky you I am not letting you fool me _ever_ again. Just promise me that will try to do that. To trust me, I mean."

Sherlock was startled he really had to say it out loud. But it seemed to be the only way John would actually believe him.

"I do trust you, John," he said firmly, "and I am not leaving again. Not without giving you proper instructions of where to find me again," he smirked.

"That's good." John smiled. The air eased again. Sherlock didn't find breathing so boring now. His heart was still pounding erratically, too excited to just decide to calm down.

And then John started laughing at his expression. "Your hair," he said simply. "I just realized it is indeed your natural color. God, I would have never thought you…"

"Why does everyone come to me after _three_ _years dead_ and all they seem to care about is my _hair_?"

John didn't reply. His gaze was serious now. "And your eyes. You made the right choice by changing their colour to disguise; I would have recognized your own anywhere."

The bloody silence.

"The lenses are bothering for a while now – it feels like sand in my eyes – how do people get to _cope _with this every day?"

"There are worse things," John said as a matter-of-fact. "And you could just take them off."

"And _we _could get _down_. The wind is blowing harder now; I think the lift's operator and the rest of the employees want to close the attraction for the day. We're the only ones left."

"We still have a lot to talk." John reminded him bitterly.

"Yes, we do, but we can surely do it in the ground. There will be plenty of time."

"There's a Brazilian restaurant I know, it is open till late. How do you feel about barbecue?"

"Disgusted."

"I wouldn't have imagined it otherwise." John smiled.

"I'll accompany you, though."

"As if you had a choice."

The camaraderie they shared was back.

"Seems like I really don't," Sherlock said calmly, "not anymore."

"Yes, you're stuck with me, and tomorrow is my day off, so we're going to Ipanema, the beach, yes, the beach, with actual people and the sea and the sand," John said in is most terrifying tone, gesturing dramatically. "I believe that's enough punishment for you, at least for now."

"So my punishment is getting to visit Rio with you?" Sherlock faked repulsion, but then smiled broadly.

"Yes, it's awful, I know. How do you feel about that?"

"Maravilhoso."

"And what does that mean?" John asked annoyed by his native accent, certainly, but then remembered where he had heard it before. "Oh."

"Yes."

"God bless the Marvelous City…," he murmured while turning his back to Sherlock, making his way to the elevator and not once looking behind, leaving Sherlock startled by his quickness. The man still was a box of surprises. Sherlock blinked a few times, and then was hit by a strange realization as he had to make long steps to follow the fast rhythm of the doctor through the city.

It was just like it was before.

Except that it was _John_ who was leading this time. For the very first time in a very long while, Sherlock felt fine.

* * *

_Cidade Maravilhosa / Marvelous City_

_Cheia de encantos mil / Filled with a thousand charms_

_Cidade maravilhosa / Marvelous City_

_Coração do meu Brasil / Heart of my Brazil_

Free translation of Rio's most popular samba – practically the city's anthem – made in 1935 as a tribute to its glorious natural beauties. Oh, come on, I just had to write Sherlock there. And in the Amazon Rainforest, of course. This whole Brazilian wave is being really fun to write, I hope you're enjoying it as well.

Thinking about another follow-up, this time somewhere different, a remote place in Brazil, I suppose. Or a great metropolis. Or I can just get a bit deeper in Rio's atmosphere and write a proper adventure there. God, so many options, so little time. Maybe a short-fic, who knows… What do you think?

Review if convenient, but if inconvenient review anyway. Thank you guys again for reading.

_Abraços,_

_Até a próxima._


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